


Gratitude

by Grinner_H



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-27
Updated: 2014-02-27
Packaged: 2018-01-13 23:38:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1244596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grinner_H/pseuds/Grinner_H
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>For Slam.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Gratitude

**Author's Note:**

> For Slam.

Belphegor tells you once, bony fingers laced against the back of his bright blond head, maniacal grin casually spreading across his face like the Cheshire cat, "Now you know how Chrome Dokuro feels."

In all accuracy, he _singsongs_ those words, eerie like little children in white dresses singing Ring a Ring o' Roses in some bad horror flick, peers out at you with those dollish blue eyes lurking beneath his golden bangs. 

_Ashes, ashes._ You've fallen and you'll stay that way, breath and life and limb be damned.

But he's wrong. 

Unlike Chrome Dokuro, you haven't been afforded the luxury of _time._

\--

And _this_ is how it all begins. 

The sight of Xanxus's arm sailing through the air - fingers in a death grip around the handle of his gun, though no longer attached to the rest of him - and the scent of blood, thick and heavy, permeating your nostrils and filling the space in your lungs where air used to be. 

It's in that one moment where your mind goes frighteningly blank. You're all at once overcome with something like unspeakable horror, something like basic instinct, something like adrenaline and _redredred._

And who knows if it's ten, twenty, maybe thirty seconds - counting's for pussies anyway - but all it really takes is less than a minute for your entire world to splinter and blur into a mess of _what the fucking fuck._

Truth is, you're not really aware of what you're doing. And maybe that's not great, because the final thing you remember is Jaeger's hand plunging - inconceivably swift and unforgivably fierce - through your chest. 

And then your heart stops beating.

\--

When you wake, it's with this distant, distinct feeling that you shouldn't be waking at all.

But here you are - white ceiling and white walls - with a colossal migraine and an ache in your chest like innumerable tiny arrows stabbing your heart. 

Your _heart._

You could have sworn that it was crushed to nothingness, yet somehow, here it is, beating on its own like the one in Poe's story. And this _chill_ grips you, like black ice in your veins, like bullets against the base of your spine - something like shock, something like relief, something like mind-numbing _fear._ This notion, that you're not _supposed_ to be here - back against the firm mattress, IV line in your arm, flimsy cotton gown against your bare skin.

But you're awake, you're _alive,_ and - sudden as a sprung bear trap - you realize _why._

_"Fuck."_

\--

Some days, you think you're never gonna get used to this - this nagging, _out of place_ sensation which tells you, _You're not meant to be here._ It makes you feel like you don't belong, like the fourth leg of a tripod, the lonely kid on the swings watching the other children play at recess.

"Isn't it like _cheating,_ though?" Yamamoto asks once, seemingly out of the blue, when he's probably been thinking about this for a long time.

You quirk a single eyebrow at him, partially amused. "Would you rather I have _remained_ dead, then?"

"Of course not." He actually looks _wounded_ you'd suggest such a thing. 

It makes you want to laugh like a mad, mad thing - this entire situation is bizarre enough as is. It's this constant push-pull of relief and anxiety, excitement and confusion; this crazy dead and alive feeling which thrums through your veins like a violin's vibrating strings. 

But you sigh instead, pull a pack of Peace cigarettes from your jeans pocket, pause, and slip it back in. "I wonder if this was how the cat felt."

Yamamoto's brows scrunch in bewilderment. " _What_ cat?"

You shake your head. "Never mind."

And for a heartbeat, maybe ten, maybe fifty, there is nothing but the crunch of your boots against gravel. 

Yamamoto slips his hands in his pockets, smiles like he's thinking of some private joke. "So what are you gonna do now? Live like you were dying, all that?"

This time, you _do_ laugh. It comes out hoarse, like you've smoked too many cigarettes. "I've already died once, Takeshi." Your fingers tangle themselves in your hair. "Maybe I'll try living like I'm _actually_ fucking _living,_ y'know?"

\--

And some days, Xanxus gives you a _look,_ catches your hand in his. It's only _then_ that you realize you've been unknowingly running your fingers over the scar on your chest.

Truth is, you can't get Yamamoto's words about cheating death out of your head. And you're starting to feel like those kids in that movie, always looking over their shoulder, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"It's strange," you say, tapping your index finger against your chest, "knowing it's not there anymore."

Xanxus doesn't say anything, only pulls you close and kisses you like he's trying to steal the breath from your lungs to fill his own.

Maybe _he's_ scared, too.

\--

But the worst of it all, you suppose, is finding yourself deep in Mammon's debt. 

It's not a place you like to be.

\--

Other times, though, you find yourself in front of the full-length mirror in your bedroom, with no memory of how you got there.

And you _breathe_ \- this natural, transient thing no one really _thinks_ about, but _you_ do, you think about it a lot these days - upon the immaculate glass, gentle like the tender caress of a summer breeze.

You watch the glass mist over and clear, marveling at how lucky you are it misted at all. 

\--

The truth is, living - _really_ living - _isn't_ about sky dives and bull rides. 

It's all about the _stupid_ things, really. 

Like sitting on the living room floor till your ass falls asleep, playing Medal of Honor with Bel and fighting about who cheated afterward.

Like letting Lussuria fuck with your hair and not feeling as annoyed as you _pretend_ to be.

Or stealing books from Mammon's shelves and putting them back in the wrong order (he does the same with your CDs), just because you _can._

It's shit like crazy movie nights with popcorn no one ever eats and sodas no one ever drinks, or dancing down the hallways to music only _you_ can hear, or doing your best Joel Goodson impression when no one's looking (and sometimes, when they _are_ ). 

And then there're times like _this_ \- lying on your stomach on a sinfully comfortable couch, your chin propped upon the armrest, watching Xanxus play _Rapsodiya na temu Paganini_ on the den's grand piano.

From his corner between the book shelf and the heavy curtains, Levi - the only person who's upset that you're not dead - glares at you with unconstrained venom.

You can't find it in your heart to care.

\--

Yamamoto always used to say, that a happy life was a series of happy moments, but no one notices the happy moments 'cause they're too busy chasing their happy lives.

You never understood what he meant until now.

\--

And one day, you wake with a start; jolting upright in bed the way you thought people only do in movies. You can't shake this eerie sensation, like someone's just called your name, and you don't have to think about it to figure out who it was.

You think about Bel and Mammon, and the mission they're on, and all the things that could have possibly gone _wrong._ And it hits you - this insidious, disquieting thing; so much like watching people you care about die in slow motion, so much like an unnameable _fear._

You know what is going to happen.

But it is in _this_ moment that your gaze is drawn to Xanxus's sleeping form beside you. Even in slumber, he chases your fears away - transforms it into this nearly non-existent thing - like a reassuring hand in your hair, like a single word spoken that's filled with meaning. 

And _this,_ you suppose - you _know_ \- is the best of it all : that every second of your time borrowed was spent not on the frivolity of yesterday, nor the uncertainty of tomorrow, but on the glaring tangibility that is _right now._

And _right now_ has you laying down, resting your weary head upon Xanxus's solid chest. It is the cadence of his steadfast heartbeat thrumming in your ear like a sui generis lullaby, guiding your eyelids shut so that all you can see is darkness that leaves you comforted and unafraid.

It might be ten, twenty, fifty, maybe a thousand moments, maybe forever, but it's not like you're counting anyway.

And then your heart stops beating.


End file.
